Snipes sat in the pilot’s chair of Coffin Nail, his feet resting idly on the console, a rum bottle hanging from his right hand and a cigarra the only thing other that switches and dials illuminating the brigands face. He liked to sit back and stare out the viewport into space and watch the stars float by. It was kinda his thing. Well, one of his many things. He’d spent the day bouncing around the sector making sure Oskers were staying out of trouble, now it was time to relax.

He exhaled another long plume of smoke and continued settling into his reprieve. He was just starting to nod off to sleep when the door slid open and the lights turned on. Snipes groaned.

“Leave me alone.” He grumbled.

“We need to return to the moon, sir.” Carrie said, ignoring him and moving into the copilots seat.

She proceeded to begin firing up the ship, Snipes took a swig from the rum bottle, reached over to the instrument panel and began un-flipping all the buttons she had pressed, “Where the hell did Kami dig you up?”

Kami had been the one to insist he took an assistant along with him since he’d be away from his crew and travelling alone for the majority of these operations, “I was a refugee.” she said matter-of-factly, “Now we need to return to the moon, it’s too dangerous to float out here unnecessarily.”

Snipes knew she had a point, he just wasn’t overly concerned about it, in part because he wasn’t doing anything illegal and the Corellian Sector had only ever heard bits and pieces about The Osk Company. That was one reason he had taken the small CEC scout ship instead of his corvette or Broken Crown. Those would raise attention. He looked over at her just as she began flipping switches again.

Frustrated, Snipes threw his hands into the air and yelled, “Fine!” and shouldered Carrie out of the way. Piloting the small ship was not a difficult task for him and he soon had it ready to jump out of the system to the small moon where Osk had made it’s temporary base.

It was a quick and uneventful jump that deposited within yelling distance, he let Carrie take care of confirming thier identity. As far as he was concerned she was mostly useless and annoying to boot. Snipes had a feeling that Kami had intentionally chosen a pretty girl just because it would make Snipes more willing to allow her on board with him.

Snipes wanted to be very mad at Kami over that, but even he had to admit that she couldn’t tag along with him all the time and this operation required a far more delicate and involved touch than he was known for giving. Sneaking in and out of the Corellian Sector was not easy, Corellia was well known for having a very efficient anti-smuggler and anti-piracy fleet in part because so many local born Corellians eventually turned to those trades. That in addition to the recent tensions, well. It wasn’t pretty.

Snipes carefully piloted his ship onto the relatively large moon and into a patch of woodland Osk had set up shop in. There was a good sized network of tunnels in the area that worked for hiding their ships in. One of the reasons they didn’t have any particularly large ships with them. Snipes set Coffin Nail down near the back and began running through the post-flight procedures.

It took a moment before he noticed Carrie staring at him, he slowly turned his head and exhaled a disgruntled plume of smoke. He had no idea what the hell she wanted, but she definitely didn’t look happy, well, as unhappy as someone who was tragically born without facial expressions could.


“Go get my jacket.”

“Your jacket?” She said acidly.

“Yes, my jacket, you’re supposed to be my assistant, so bloody assist.” Snipes growled.

He turned back to his controls puffing madly on the cigarra as she huffed out of the cockpit. He silently cursed Kami as he adjusted the controls and wound down the engine. Since when did kings need assistants. Snipes was sure there was something in galactic law that made it illegal.

"We got the comm twenty minutes ago, don't you think you should answer it by now?"

Havock didn't move from her position reclining on the torn and tattered couch in the crew area of the Bitch . They had lost contact with most of her Bonnie Reade Fleet, but she refused to give up the name. Brightstar had flown off after something, Havock suspected a man was involved but that seemed out of character for her red haired friend. Regardless her ship and crew was beyond communication. Jaenna had taken her ship to do several spice runs who knows where. That just left Havock alone with her Broken Bitch .

Trix was pacing back and forth in the crew area, the girl hated having to wait above all else and Havock had refused to move the ship from its position until someone returned to her fleet. "Really Havock, do I need to get Millie?"

Havock sighed and tipped her large hat back to reveal a dirty face. "Aww please don't call mom Trix."

"I didn't know I held your favor that highly Cap'n." Millie strutted into the crew area from the cockpit where she typically lived.

Havock pulled the hat back down over her eyes. "Oh yea, you think you could read me a bed time story?"

Wes walked quickly through the room nearly running into Trix causing both parties to huff with exasperation at the others existence. The crew had been reduced to the primary members. Only Bird, Millie, Trix and Wes remained on the Bitch. Havock couldn't really blame the others for leaving, the Bonnie Reade's had been mostly staying out of trouble. They had focused on repairs and bar fights over the past several months, Havock wasn't even sure how long it had been but she was keenly aware of how boring it was.

"Cap'n you do have a priority message from the King."

Havock let out a groan. "Yanno what, the next fraker that tells me about the stupid message is getting a blaster bolt in the ass."

Bird floated through the door, blissfully ignorant of everything that was going on. He stepped up to the bar and poured himself something weak and fruity. The man also rarely left his pilots chair and tended to have his head in the clouds, a trait that drove Havock nuts.

"Oh hey Havock, there's a message for you."

Wes grabbed Trix's shoulders and took a step back into the hallway. Millie shook her head in a knowing fashion and also stepped away from Bird.

"Bird, do me a favor and turn around."

He shrugged and turned his back to the captain, looking for whatever she was going to ask him for. Instead she drew her pistol and fired a shot just missing the pilots ass by just inches and burning a hole in the bulkhead.

"What the hell Cap'n?!?"

Havock rolled to her feet and holstered the weapon. She shrugged at Bird and muttered towards Trix to grab her tool kit from the hyperdrive bay. The message was from Eyesore, and requested all Captains to return. There would be shenanigans no doubt.

"Alright." Havock yelled. "We are going to Eyesore, get your asses where they are supposed to be and someone pour me a big glass of whiskey. You dilute it with ice and I'll shoot your ass."

Millie smirked and leaned over the navigators chair Havock was sitting in. "Oh Cap'n it is good  to have you back, just a small ask. Can we please save up the shooting until we are out of hyperspace? I am frightfully afraid of being blown to hell."

Bird slipped around the women quietly flicking a quick gaze to Havock a few times but keeping his mouth shut.

"For you Millie, anything." Havock smirked and left the cockpit to work on the new hole in the crew area.

The dead ship hung listlessly in space, drifting as it lacked a pilot. Or, a living pilot, at any rate. It's former pilot was slumped on the floor by the pilot's chair, body curled up in a pool of his own blood. The sight did nothing to deter Aero as he leaned on the chair, watching the Captain of the other ship, the one that could be seen if one looked through the viewport directly behind Aero. The ship that they stood on had no name, or at least did not have one that was known to Aero. The other ship had one, though. It was called the Broken Bitch and it's Captain, Havock.

An image of the cockpit and its occupants, both living and dead, would have been almost slightly comical, had it not been wholly realistic and a bit gruesome and disturbing. The ship had previously been the ship of a normally Republic-affliated smuggler, but now was full of dead bodies and copious amounts of blood. The smuggler and his crew would have still been alive had he not attempted to double-cross a few of Osk's more important people. Aero did not know the entire situation outside of that and, honestly, did not really care to know any of the specifics. It was enough that the man was dead and the ship was free for the taking.

"I claim this ship." Aero said, watching Havock calmly.

The woman did a double-take, "Excuse me? You want to run that by me again? It almost sounded like you said that you claim this ship, but that would be a monumentally stupid thing to say to the Captain of the ship that you are currently living aboard."

"Stupid as it may be, I stand by the claim."

Aero was a calculating man. He was not stupid. He knew what he was doing, had been planning it for quite a while. Still, even the most well planned things went wrong. He tightened his grip on his knives, wondering whether he'd soon get the chance to sate their bloodlust again.

"Uh-huh. And what makes you think that this is a legitimate claim? This is a ship we're talking about, not some bit of cargo."

Aero already knew that Havock didn't like him. None of her crew did. He still wasn't fully sure why he was still alive, but he didn't really want to question that too much. It wasn't like he hadn't given them a reason to hate him. Quite the contrary actually. He was incapable of shutting up for one moment, keeping up a steady stream of chattering that only seemed to abate when he was asleep or drunk. The talk coming out of his mouth could range from idle comments about the weather to degrading comments about the people around him to discussion on the more philisophical aspects of life. He really didn't care about what he talked about, so long as he simply talked. It had all been part of the plan, but not all of it had been an act. Though it had intensified a few months back, as that had been when he first conceived his brilliant plan, he had always been a bit of a general annoyance to those around him. He really didn't care.

In addition to his unpleasant attitude, he was highly unreliable in everything but a fight. That last bit was what he suspected had kept him alive. He was quite deadly in a fight, provided he could get close enough to someone. And if he indeed did get close enough, then he had usually already won.

"Well, for starters, since I've been on this ship, have I even once asked for any sort of payment, whether it be in credit form or loot form?"

That had been the lucky part. He had never really cared for getting paid, not from the start. It had been an actual place to stay that had drawn him to stow away on the ship. Even since he had come to be accepted, if only reluctantly, aboard the ship, he had simply eaten modest portions of food, preferring to eat what he had managed to get on planet. He had even refused a room, settling down in a corner of one of the storage rooms.

Even if he had wanted credits, he really wouldn't have needed them. He already had a modest amount saved up over the years, enough to let him live a modest life for the rest of his days. He could have bought a house on the Eyesore, if he had wanted to. But he trusted very little of the housing on planet and trusted the neighbors even less. At least on Havock's ship he could be assured a moderately safe haven.

"So?"

She seemed unimpressed. Time to bring out the big guns.

"Over time, all of that passed by payment and loot adds up to quite a substantial amount. Though, I will admit that it's still not enough to equal the worth of such a ship. But I can offer you a deal that you cannot pass up on."

And the hook had caught. He saw it in her eyes, the glint of greed.

"Oh? Go on."

"If you let me have this ship, I will pay you a fair bit of credits. In return, you will be rid of me for good. I will not set foot upon this ship ever again, barring unforeseen future circumstances that will absolutely forbid me from any other sort of course except setting foot upon this lovely ship. Such things happen, you know. But if I have any sort of say in the matter, I will never be back on this ship and I will never bother you or your crew ever again. What do you say?"

A long pause. He watched closely, managing to keep the anxiety from his face as he waited to see if his gamble paid off. The ship was smaller than hers, so she couldn't simply take it as her new ship, despite the fact that it was in much better condition than the piece of shit that she captained. Her crew simply wouldn't fit. That was one mark in his favor.

But she could sell it, which would ultimately be what the decision came down to. If he could offer her enough credits, combined with the fact that she would finally be rid of him, she might actually be willing to overlook just how much she had missed out on in not selling it.

"Fine. But you better have those credits and there better be a lot of them."

He couldn't hide the grin.

"Thank you. You won't regret it."

Havock stepped forward and held her hand out, which quickly retracted as Aero handed her the credits. She took a quick glance at them, her eyebrows raising as she saw the rather large denominations. She glanced at him for a moment, then shrugged and turned, stuffing the credits in her pocket. Grinning from ear to ear, Aero looked around for a moment, before a thought crossed his mind.

"Hey. Havock. Any chance one of your people can possible help me clean some of these bodies up and pilot it back to the Eyesore?"

She turned and looked him in the eye, "Your ship, your problems. Besides, do you really think they'd help you?"

He sighed, "Fair point."

She smirked and left the cockpit.

“Of course, nothing but the finest for such a distinguished client,” he flattered. The client in question was the fearsome leader of the local protection racket. He spoke little and his eyes seemed to stare widely at everything, making every expression seem more intense. The client was carefully examining a high tech sullustan blaster carbine, one of apparently many in crates around the floor.

“The price is too good,” the gangster replied, passing the rifle to an underling. He crossed his arms and looked hard at the tall and slender youth in front of him. James “Dicer” Clark was once again pushing his luck to the limit.

“I was hoping to set up a more permanent arrangement. A good initial discount in exchange for further business,” Dicer smiled, the tone of his voice ever smooth, his relaxed stance disarming. Beneath the façade he silently berated himself, he hadn’t meant to undercharge. The goods were of course, for the most part, fake. A handful of real product in amongst a shipment of defective knock offs he had picked up for nearly nothing. Just another con for the young man who followed a line of opportunities his luck and charm led him to.

He ran his hand through his untidy, ruffled blond hair and waited for a reply. If any of his acquaintances were asked to describe the young man, they’d almost certainly start with “lucky”. They’d almost certainly follow that up with “charming” and “stupid”.  Opportunities had a habit of falling into his lap, but he almost always managed to push his luck too hard. It was a cycle he had yet to break. His luck would lead him to new opportunities and life would be good. Then James would push his luck too far end he would end up in monumental trouble that normally came with serious debt.

“We will take these, at twenty percent less than you asked. No promises of further business – but, if you come across anything else you come and see me first,”

Dicer made a clearly mock gesture of being offender. “Come on now, you can’t have me making a loss and not even promise further business.” He watched the crime lord’s second-in-command carefully. That one looked shrewd and was eyeing the crates suspiciously. Dicer knew that if he could just pull this one off he could finally square up with his creditors and get off-world. The other option was that the self-believed invincibility of youth was going to lead him into another monumental failure and stand him in even more trouble than before

“I tell you what little man,” the gang leader proclaimed in his thick accent. “Why don’t you stop talking and make another offer,”

“Ten percent off the original price and you can take them right now,” Dicer replied, his gaze hardening, his tone more blunt. He had to seal this deal now and split.

“Done,” the tall and slender youth took the payment from another underling, turned on his heals and headed away from the group. The gangs thugs were all around the disused warehouse, some on the walkways above, most on the ground looking through the cases containing their latest acquisition. Dicer was careful to maintain his pace, his feet wanted to move quicker, but he knew he had to appear calm.

“Wait!” came a shout from behind him. “What’s this??”

“Here we go . . . again” The kid sighed under his breath. He held his position and carefully moved the bag containing the credits onto his back, freeing up his arms. He slowly turned to see one of the gang members regarding one of the fake models, shaking it in frustration.

“Bring those credits back here. Now.”

“What seems to be the problem?” he called back across the warehouse floor, checking out the number of men around him and the nearest exits.

“These,” the gang leader shouted, angry veins popping out on his bald head “Are fakes!”

“That is a shame. A shame you had to check the damn crates,” Dicer barely finished the sentence as he burst into action. He drew a pair of blaster pistols and fired shots across the hall, scattering the men. The athletic youth was well used to running, legs pumped as he covered the floor to the nearest cover. Blaster fire started to come his way as he reached what used to be the office section of the old warehouse. There was a scream as he hit the gangster on the walk way above him before he dived through a half smashed window. He rolled across the crushed glass on the other side and continued his wild flight.

Blaster fire poured after him, but he seemed to change direction enough times as he ran to avoid most of the bolts. He rolled over an old office desk, cursing the broken glass that lay on its surface. Without aiming he fired a few shots back at his pursuers. A cry told him that he’d managed to hit one by chance. He’d turned and carried on running before confirming.



“Shit.” James muttered to himself. After shaking off his pursuit he’d broken into another empty warehouse. The rough districts of Lotaith’s poorest city contained many such buildings. Whilst he’d escaped with the pack, at some point during his flight it had been split. He’d noticed he was losing credits as he ran, but had hoped he would only lose a few. Instead just a handful of credits were left.

His options were virtually nonexistent. The local gang leader was hardly a problem. He maintained a fairly small, local operation. On top of that he had probably picked up most of the credits from the floor and realised he had at least a handful of top quality weapons. It was Dicer’s other creditors that were a problem. Some of them would go to great expense to track the youth down.

Dicer mentally totalled how many credits he owned. It was enough for an off-world transport, but he’d have to be very careful and it wouldn’t get him very far. One backup plan had been in his mind for a long time. There was a city in this region of space where pirates gathered. It was said that a common method of gaining recruits was to hold gambling tournaments aimed at putting the desperate in debt to the local pirates. When they invariably couldn’t afford their losses, the pirates would put them to work for a few weeks.

Dicer was brilliant at gambling. He had quick hands, a quick wit and was known for his streaks of fantastic luck. He had his doubts on the plan. Whilst he’d dabbled with the underworld, he was still a skinny privileged kid. Being well over six foot and quick with a blaster pistol was hardly going to help him in a nest of experienced mercenaries. Still, he may well had run out of options. 

OOC:

You can probably see where this is going, he pushes his inexplicable luck too far and ends up owning one of the crews a few months of service.

"Belay that hyperspace order!" Millie yelled from the cockpit.

Havock groaned as she slammed the half empty bottle of whiskey down on the bar. The past six months had taught her that whiskey tasted better than water and that her nightmares were never going to let her get a decent nights rest. The Bitch may not have done much, but they had done enough to cause the need for several repairs. Aero had demanded his own ship in the one decent raid they had managed. She didn't care, the strange little man needed a new environment to crawl around in like a rat.

Wes approached quickly, his eyes wide and terrified. "Havock, my cupboard is talking to me."

"Good lord man, have you be in the medicine cabinet again?"

Millie came running in from the cockpit. "Cap'n we have an unauthorized dock in progress. You okay there Wes? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"My cupboard...is...talking..."

Millie raised an eyebrow and leaned in close to Havock's ear. "Meds again?"

Havock nodded slowly and took a long drink from her whiskey bottle. A figure appeared holding two large rifles and looking excited.

"Skarr? You're still here?"

Skarr nodded. "Did she say we have intruders? I've got dibs on what's left of their pockets after Thema and Louise are done."

Millie was not pleased at the way Skarr used the rifle barrel to point in her direction more than once. "You named your rifles?" She rolled her eyes and turned back to the captain. "Havock, we do have intruders that need attention."

"Right." Havock took another long drink and finally returned the top to her whiskey. "Okay, Millie go find out if there is actually a boogie man in Wes' cupboard, if there's not take away his med cabinet key again. Skarr, Thema, and Louise you are with me."

Havock approached the hatch just as the audible pressure click sounded indicating that whoever had docked had done it. "Did Bird try to run an ID check on the ship?"

"Bird couldn't find his ass with a flamethrower." Skarr muttered behind her.

"Geeze Skarr, that sounds like it would hurt if he tried."

Further conversation was cut off by the opening of the hatch and a small framed blonde haired man walking through with his hands in the air. "It was her crazy idea, please don't shoot me."

Skarr raised one of his guns and tapped the barrel to the man's forehead. "Move, that way now."

The two men moved just enough for the other occupant of the ship to enter. A long spice stick was freshly lit and hanging from the very familiar woman’s mouth. Havock didn't lower her pistol although a smile formed on her lips.

"Well hello there, Rivet still has my command codes I see."

Jaenna took a long drag off the stick and raised her eyebrow at Skarr and Ashton. "Miss me?"

Havock didn't lower her pistol but she moved forward and gently threaded her fingers behind Jaenna's head and through her hair. Ashton's jaw dropped as Havock pulled Jaenna to her and they shared a long kiss.

They kept their foreheads together as their lips parted. Havock motioned with the pistol that was pointed at Ashton from around Jaenna's back. "So, you like your crewmember here? Or shall Skarr and I take care of him for you?"

"Aww." Jaenna tapped Havock's nose. "So jealous." She kissed Havock one more time and smiled. "He can live, now show me what you've done to our ship." Jaenna slapped the Captain on the ass as she made her way to the lounge.

"Damn." Skarr whispered. "Okay then, I guess you are free to go. Come on Thema I'll buy you the first round."

Ashton stayed frozen and alone in the corridor for several moments before he uttered, "a madhouse, we've docked with a madhouse."

Millie was standing with her hand clenched around the fabric of Karash's tunic. "Found this in the cupboard Havvie. Oh welcome back Jae."

"Millie." Jaenna saluted with the same bottle of whiskey Havock had been drinking earlier. "Karash, the cupboard really? Has Havvie really be tramatising you that bad?"

Havock shrugged. "Hey, I didn't even know he was here."

Karash looked around the room like a bewildered animal. "Can I please go back to my cupboard now?"

"Yes Karash, I'll let you know if I break anything, try not to scare Wes anymore. We need to get underway, so find a place to get drunk and lets do it properly."

Dicer lifted one of the cards on the table. He turned the corners just a fraction of an inch to review his hand. As he did so the crowd that had assembled around the table leaned in. The stench in the hot press of bodies was bad enough for Dicer, but unbearable when the assembled scrum decided to lean closer and breath on him. He briefly reflected that he could probably get drunk off fumes alone amongst this rabble.

On the far side of the table his one remaining opponent nervously played with a lighter. There was a constant metallic clicking as the lid was flicked open and closed. Dicer had been watching him play with the battered old lighter. It might have been engraved with a message, but it was hard to tell under the dents and rust. Dicer had observed that his opponent played with the lighter more frequently as nerves set in. For the last thirty minutes that lighter had been firmly clasped in his hand.

The table had started off with eight players. With his five hundred credit loan from the house Dicer had wiped six of them out. His final opponent was far shrewder than the rest. He was in his early fifties, at least, though his eyes betrayed a keen intellect not dulled by age. He was still a large, well muscled man - and armed to the teeth - but his darkly tanned skin hung loosely from his powerful frame. 

He was an intelligent and patient player. Those keen eyes watched Dicer’s face intently from beneath his low brow. The metallic click of the lighter continued. There was silence in the tightly packed crowd around them. Dicer’s opponent was deciding whether the meet the increased stakes, or to fold.

In the back of Dicer’s mind a voice was quietly berating him for making such a bold move. His luck – and occasional ability to cheat – had held firmly so far. He should have been playing the long game with his last opponent, witling away until he left the table. His winnings were already enough to pay off the house and start some new scheme to pay off his creditors.

Instead his entire pile of credits sat on the table between them. Not just the tokens representing his credits – this game had gone way above the initial stakes – but his coat, his pair of blaster pistols, and a chit for another 10,000 credits.

He held his opponents gaze firmly for a few moments, but then his eyes flashed down to the pile that lay between them.

“I’ll see your raise,” Dicer’s opponent immediately replied. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. He had a deep, rumbling voice. Unlike some of the vagabonds that had sat at the table initially, this one spoke perfectly clearly, not in broken basic or slang.

In one fluid motion he revealed his cards.

Dicer’s heart sank.

There was a collective intake of breath from the crowd at the mediocre hand on display. One by one, Dicer turned over his cards. There was a muttering from the crowd after each card, and his opponent’s eyes went wide as it started to seem that Dicer held a strong hand. The moment of fear was some solace to James at least. As he turned over his last card his opponents face split into a wide smile. There was a laugh from the crowd. Someone muttered: “better luck next time kid.”

Dicer shrank into his seat, and his head dropped. He didn’t want to watch the pile of credit tokens pulled away from him. A pair of strong hands landed on his shoulders, and remained there. There crowd around the table dispersed. Dicer and his opponent were left sitting on opposite sides and the two heavies who had appeared behind him.

“The name’s Hartley, didn’t catch your own?” the old man spoke. His tone was friendly.

“Clark. James Clark.” Dicer replied, managed to look up from his lap for a moment. Hartley was holding the most expensive credit chit up before them.

“Why don’t we go to a private booth and have a little chat about how you’ll be repaying your debts?” he asked. He didn’t really ask, of course, the firm grip on Dicer’s shoulder indicated that.

Dicer merely nodded in reply and let himself be man-handled away from the table. 

“So,” Hartley continued when the group were sat around a quiet table. The two heavies sat careful so Dicer was boxed in. “Do you know much about how this place operates?” he asked.

“I have a vague idea,” Dicer replied.

“Well, let me just make it clear. The house has a standing arrangement with some local parties. You see, when a kid like you gets given his thousand starting credits and loses it, the house passes on the debt to someone else. They collect it back from you in terms of labour. Now you’ll be seeing Ms. Sharpe, or one of her assistants about those arrangements, but you also owe me another . . . ten thousand is it?”

“Yes,” Dicer replied. For a brief moment it had felt like he had lost the ability to vocalise his thoughts. He swallowed and tried to convince himself that there was a way out of this. There was always a way out. Wasn’t there?

“As it happens I also have an arrangement with Ms. Sharpe. I clean out a tourist and I can pass on their debt to Osk. Just like the house does. Much easier for me to take their coin and pass a runt on like you than to try and squeeze the credits out of you.”

Dicer lifted his head and jutted out his jaw. Trying his best to look defiant. “I get it,” he said.

Hartley ran his hand over his stubbled chin, obviously thinking something through. “I tell you what, not many have been stupid enough to lose so many credits at the table to me before. You’ve made me a good profit there. I’m going to do you two favours, one in the form of a gift, one in the form of advice.” He reached beneath the table to pick something up. He tossed Dicer’s pistols back across the table.

“You’ll be needing them where you’re going,” he said. He stopped before continuing and then took an old E-5 blaster from his collection of weapons and placed it carefully on the table. “Weapons are precious amongst the kids chucked on an Osk meat wagon, those toy pistols won’t get you far. This is a present too, she’s old, but reliable.”

“Er, thanks.” Dicer replied.

“Now advice. Ms. Sharpe or her people will negotiate over the terms of your short term employment. Unlike the rest of Osk you won’t get a share of any profits, you’ll count as a hired gun for a set amount of time. For what you owe, don’t settle for any more than six months service. I’ve seen kids like you, wet behind the ears, get shackled with years of service for such debts.

“Now you’re probably wondering why I’m doing you these favours,” Hartley continued monologuing, barely pausing for breath. “One: I’m quite happy at all the credits you’ve just made me. What can I say? I’m in a good mood. Two, and more importantly: I reckon I have use for a kid like you. You’re a sharp, very sharp on the cards kid. You nearly wiped the floor with seven of our best and had me on a’ropes. When Osk are done with you, come find me. Might be able to find some work for you at the tables. You know, ripping off the tourists like I did you?” He smiled widely as he finished his explanation.

Here’s one who likes the sound of his own voice, Dicer thought to himself. He simply nodded his reply. Hartley looked away and waved dismissively at one of the heavies who guided Dicer away.

“Why the generosity?” asked the remaining heavy.

“Ah, maybe I felt sorry for him? But did you see the game he played?” Hartley asked rhetorically. “Kid plays well and has got a streak of luck a mile wide. Fortunately for me kids that age –what do you reckon, nineteen, maybe twenty one? They don’t know when to stop.”

“I suppose?”

“If he survives his time in Osk – and I doubt he will – I could genuinely use his talent. And anyway, what’s a few words of advice and an old blaster compared to ten kay?” The heavy shrugged. “Not much chance of that though. He’ll be piled in the meat wagon with the rest of the idiots and pushed to the front of the line for the King’s next lunatic charge. Osk chews through kids like that at a terrifying speed!”

OOC:

Have left it with Snipes to see if any captains want a swabbie underthingy. Not my best post, pacing is still off, but it was fun to write!

“So...this awful Basic is the King, right?” said Van Pelt after a minute. The various crew members of Gates’ crew were gathered around the holoterminal as the message looped again.

“In his defense,” Gates finally replied, “He’s not drunk. And he appears to be shouting at someone off screen at...this bit.”

“So, um,” Baillo started. “What the hell does this message mean?”

Gates pointed again at the holo, “Well - look. This part involves ‘you bastards’ the various captains, privateers, lords and so forth. And this part, Snipes says ‘get your ass to mars.’ What or where the hell this ‘mars’ is doesn’t matter. It obviously means that we need to get the Osk moon, PITA.”

The crew looked at their Captain with various looks of conflicting wonder and confusion. “Do...is...is that actually what he meant?”

“Probably,” Gates said confidently.

“PITA?” asked another. “Like that carnivore society?”

“No. Pain in the ass. The moon,” Gates replied. “You guys’ll never make Captain or shit like this.”

“So...where?”

“To SPACE!” Gates yelled excitedly. “For new pay! For a new crusade! For booze and women!”

The crew sprang into action, buttoning the ship up and preparing the Bloodfist for takeoff. The various mercs and others without an active job that didn’t involve shooting things kept right where they were.

The ship shuddered as its massive repulsorlifts lifted the dozens of tons of metal into the air. After a moment, the engines groaned to life, and the corvette cruised out of Eyesore’s filthy atmosphere.

“Lightspeed, helm,” Gates called to his cockpit. The pilot obliged after a minute, once they’d actually left the gravity well and could do so.

The hyperspace hop took little time to complete, and soon enough, they were dropping back into realspace. The moon loomed large before them, and the pilot started bringing them in.

“Are we first?” asked Jeska, the navigator.

“No,” Gates said, pointing. “Look. There’s the Bitch, pride and joy of the Bonniereades. It’s a piece of shit, but don’t say that to any of them. There’s...uh...the Datastream. I think. Jae’s ship? Maybe?”

“What about those two, at either end?”

“That one, I’ve never seen it before. Maybe someone got lucky, hit it rich? Don’t really care,” Gates dismissed the question. “But that’s one of the old ones. Maybe...the...Stranger? I don’t think I’ve seen it more than once. Which leaves Snipes’ ship, the Coffin Nail. Quite conservative for him.”

The corvette settled into landing, and Gates swept off the ship. His second in the Longcoats and his pilot ran after him, using their interior superiority to claim places beside their Captain.

It took almost no time to find the King and his Captains. He just followed the yelling.

“My King! My King!” Gates said in greeting, slamming the door open. “You were too sober in your message. I almost misunderstood. Bonnniereades, a pleasure. You...with the goggles. I’m sure you’re quite interesting as well.”

“Osk lives, G,” Snipes replied as he waved with a half-full mug. “And so do all of us. You Captains are gathering, so it’s only a matter of time.”

“You are well and truly forked Cap.”

Kami glared at Vasili from across the dejarik table. They had been playing for over an hour as they waited for the Zephyr to drop out of hyperspace near PITA. Various bottles were scattered about the floor near Vasili’s boots, most of them the property of Hond, who was lounging with a cigarra in a chair nearby. Ydj was crouched in the corner of the light freighter’s common room with a giant wafer cracker suspended between the two pincers of his left hand. The Verpine’s large black eyes swivelled to lock onto Kami as she stared blankly at the configuration of holographic creatures spread out before her.

Vasili flashed the small group a cocky grin and leaned back into the plush cushions at his back.

“Don’t feel bad Kams,” He offered by way of consolidation, taking a long swig from the half-empty rum bottle perched precariously on the side of the gaming table. “You held out much longer than usual.”

“It’s not over yet,” Kami growled back at him, pure stubborn will preventing her from conceding defeat.

“Statistically speaking, Master Vasili is correct,” Ydj twittered from his corner. “Any attempt to maneuver your K'lor'slug or Ghhhk will ultimately result in their destruction at the hands of Grimtaash the Molator. Holding position will also doom your remaining pieces. Had you not recklessly charged several moves ago you might have been able to salvage your-“

Kami’s groan cut off the rest of Ydj’s sentence. “I hate this game.”

“It’s a waste of time anyhow,” Hond said, his eyes glowing even through the haze of smoke that lingered about his head. “Be better off shooting something. Or sleeping. Or drinking.”

“The man speaks wisdom for once,” Vasili agreed. The pilot leaned forward and swirled the remaining rum beneath Kami’s nose. “A few mouthfuls won’t hurt.”

Kami stiffened in her chair as the sweet scent of spices assaulted her. Vasili must have been drunk, to offer her alcohol so casually. It was a vice that she had tried and failed to avoid throughout the years. It was also a habit that consistently dredged up suppressed memories of bitter times.

Hond was sober enough to recognize the warning signs. He made a half-hearted attempt at aid as he spoke. “Cap can’t drink, she has a meeting with the King.”

“Like that matters,” Vasili persisted with a bark of a laugh. “The King has more booze in his veins than blood. C’mon Kams. A single swig and I’ll let you be.”

Kami planted both of her hands on the table and rose to her feet. “Another time. I need to go check in with Dez and see how far out we are.”

She made it safely halfway across the room before Vasili also came to his feet, one hand thrown out to support his unsteady weight.

“You have a reputation you know.” He called after her, seemingly eager to pick a fight in the absence of any conflict with Hond.

Kami span back to face him and jabbed a finger at his face. “Shut it Vee. I’m not in the mood.”

“But you never are, are you?” Vasili stalked towards her in several long, loping strides.

Ydj had lowered his cracker and placed it safely on the floor. As the tension grew between the pair, he skittered up to Vasili’s shoulder and tentatively tugged on the fabric of the pilot’s jumpsuit. “You are intoxicated. Perhaps conversing is best saved for later.”

Vasili shrugged off the Verpine’s arm and took another long draw of the rum. He moved another step closer to his lock-jawed Captain, unaware or uncaring of the danger.

“Kami Sharpe, all work and no play,” He spoke each word slowly, dragging out every syllable. “It gets old Kams. Even for the crew.”

Ydj let out a squeak and ran from the room, no doubt to retrieve the cool-headed Deznim from the cockpit. Hond had straightened in his chair as he watched the pair. The hired gun was subconsciously flexing his fingers, more than aware of what was coming.

“I don’t have the luxury of time,” Kami managed between clenched teeth. “I’m not a whore-mongering fly-boy that spends most of the year either drunk or asleep.”

Vasili threw the now empty bottle on the ground with a flourish, ignoring the shards of glass that peppered his legs as the bottle disintegrated.

“At least I know who I am Cap’n.” He drawled. Vasili paused for a moment, his eyes glittering, and then finally threw a barb that he knew Kami could not ignore. “At least I don’t mope about, pushing the heartbroken prude act for all its worth.”

Kami’s right fist connected solidly with the pilot’s jaw.

Vasili dropped like a stone, caught completely off-balance in his drunken stupor. Kami followed him down amongst the slivers of the broken bottle. She ignored the bright flash of pain in both knees as she sat astride Vasili’s waist, holding him down even as her left fist was coming about to follow her right. Her knuckles split as they slammed down into the cavity of one of Vasili’s eyes.

“You bastard!” Kami was vaguely aware of the words flying from her mouth, her vision blurring as she drove her right fist back down into her pilot’s nose. “You goddamn bastard!”

“Kami!”

Deznim was suddenly there, the combined strength of his arms and his tail curling about her raised arm to prevent it from falling. The Ryn tugged back with all of his might to pull Kami sidewards and off the bleeding Vasili. Kami struggled back to her knees, against the Ryn’s considerable strength, intending to resume her beating.

“Get off me!” She snarled at her friend.

“No.” The Ryn pulled again, holding Kami in place as Hond abruptly loomed up beside the pair. The Chiss mercenary bent and swooped Kami up against the bulk of his chest in a single movement. Pinned by the man’s rock-hard chest and arms, she eventually ceased her struggles. Almost as quickly as the anger had come on it faded.

Almost disconnectedly, her gaze tracked to Vasili, who was slowly struggling up to a sitting position. Glass had trailed several red gashes down the side of his face where Kami had pushed it into the ship’s floor. His left eye was rapidly swelling and blood was trickling from a steady stream from his nose and his mouth. In despite of the pain he must have been feeling for all the anesthetizing effects of the booze he had consumed, Vasili allowed Deznim to help him back to his feet. Once there the pilot sauntered back across the room and popped open another beer from the abandoned dejarik table.

Throughout it all he refused to look in Kami’s direction.

“Think you need some time to cool off,” Hond shoved Kami in the direction of the hallway to her quarters. The mercenary seemed far more amused than irritated by the entire spectacle. He offered his Captain a satisfied grunt as farewell. “You can sure throw a punch. “

In the complete absence of her judgement in the last few minutes, Kami wisely decided to follow Hond’s suggestion. She turned and moved into the Zephyr’s corridors, nursing her bleeding knuckles as she left the rest of her crew behind.